silverware and white china. He frowned and tilted his head. If only one guest would be eating, he hoped he was the one.
Crossing the hall to the kitchen, he knocked on the wall before entering. "Miss Viola, are you in there?" A few more steps brought him next to the pantry door. "Hello? Miss Vee?"
The object of his raid beckoned from the sideboard, a metal basket lined with a red-checkered cloth. Tiller lifted away the folds, releasing the steamy baked bread smell into the air. Leaning over the heaped-up rolls, he drew a deep breath through his nose.
Ah!
Pure pleasure.
His fingers closed around one of the light brown tops, so soft it gave at his touch. Closing his eyes, he brought the roll to his lips, savoring the moment briefly before he shoved it in whole.
Warm, yeasty flavor melted to the roof of his mouth.
Butter. He needed butter.
Rummaging inside the cold box, he brought out a full bowl, creamy and fresh-churned, then reached back in for a jar of strawberry jam. Placing them on the counter beside the rolls, he scurried across the room to search the cabinets for a plate. "Now where do you suppose they—"
A scream ripped the air.
Whirling with an iron skillet, Tiller backed against the sink.
The young woman cowering in the doorway bellowed louder. "Come quick! Miss Vee! Miss Mariah! He a thief."
Taking a step toward her, Tiller held up his hands, skillet and all, in protest. "Now, wait a minute—"
She let go another ear-piercing screech. "Lord, he’p me! He gon’ bash in my head."
Over the girl’s shoulder, Miss Bell lurched into sight with Miss Vee on her heels. Sliding to a halt, Miss Bell drew the trembling girl behind her skirts. "Mr. McRae?" Her sultry brown eyes opened wider than Tiller thought possible. "What are you doing in here?"
Frantic, he took in their suspicious glares. "I’m sorry. I was"—he squinted at the food spread over the sideboard—"hungry?"
Miss Bell’s silent stare raked him with doubt.
The high-strung girl turned up her nose like something foul had crawled inside. "I s’pose you about to eat the frying pan?" She pursed her lips. "Don’t believe him, Miss Mariah. He after the good silver."
Now that the girl’s mouth wasn’t cocked wide and screaming, Tiller recognized her as the one they called Dicey, who answered the door when he came. Even then, she’d been hesitant to let him in the house. Poor thing must be the nervous sort.
Tiller glanced at Miss Vee, watching him with brooding eyes. "Ma’am, I’m no thief. Just impatient, I reckon. The house is full of the scent of good cooking, and my appetite got the best of me." He shuffled his feet. "It’s not the first time, I’ll say that much, but this lapse of good sense isn’t my fault. Judging by the smell, someone in this house has an inspiring talent for shaking a skillet." For emphasis, he shook the one in his hand.
Dicey ducked and clutched her bodice with both hands, pressing her back against the wall.
A smile edged the corners of Miss Vee’s mouth then melted into rowdy laughter. She patted Dicey’s shoulder. "Stop it, now. You’re wasting a good conniption. He’s not going to hurt you."
Dicey moaned. "How you know?"
Miss Bell glanced over her shoulder. "Good question, Dicey. I’m wondering the same."
Slipping one arm around Miss Bell’s dainty waist, Miss Vee hugged her close. "Honey, this boy’s harmless, as long as we keep him fed."
She jutted her chin at Tiller. "Go into the dining room and tuck in your napkin. We’ll be right in to serve you."
Tiller glanced toward the rolls.
Grinning, Miss Vee handed him the basket. "Take it along with you. Dicey will fetch the butter and jam."
He started for the hall with Miss Vee barking orders behind him.
"I’ve seen men like this before, Mariah. Pile a platter high with beef and ladle ample gravy in the bowl. If we don’t get his belly full, he’ll be back in the kitchen by nightfall."
Dicey followed Tiller into the dining room with mincing
Crossing the hall to the kitchen, he knocked on the wall before entering. "Miss Viola, are you in there?" A few more steps brought him next to the pantry door. "Hello? Miss Vee?"
The object of his raid beckoned from the sideboard, a metal basket lined with a red-checkered cloth. Tiller lifted away the folds, releasing the steamy baked bread smell into the air. Leaning over the heaped-up rolls, he drew a deep breath through his nose.
Ah!
Pure pleasure.
His fingers closed around one of the light brown tops, so soft it gave at his touch. Closing his eyes, he brought the roll to his lips, savoring the moment briefly before he shoved it in whole.
Warm, yeasty flavor melted to the roof of his mouth.
Butter. He needed butter.
Rummaging inside the cold box, he brought out a full bowl, creamy and fresh-churned, then reached back in for a jar of strawberry jam. Placing them on the counter beside the rolls, he scurried across the room to search the cabinets for a plate. "Now where do you suppose they—"
A scream ripped the air.
Whirling with an iron skillet, Tiller backed against the sink.
The young woman cowering in the doorway bellowed louder. "Come quick! Miss Vee! Miss Mariah! He a thief."
Taking a step toward her, Tiller held up his hands, skillet and all, in protest. "Now, wait a minute—"
She let go another ear-piercing screech. "Lord, he’p me! He gon’ bash in my head."
Over the girl’s shoulder, Miss Bell lurched into sight with Miss Vee on her heels. Sliding to a halt, Miss Bell drew the trembling girl behind her skirts. "Mr. McRae?" Her sultry brown eyes opened wider than Tiller thought possible. "What are you doing in here?"
Frantic, he took in their suspicious glares. "I’m sorry. I was"—he squinted at the food spread over the sideboard—"hungry?"
Miss Bell’s silent stare raked him with doubt.
The high-strung girl turned up her nose like something foul had crawled inside. "I s’pose you about to eat the frying pan?" She pursed her lips. "Don’t believe him, Miss Mariah. He after the good silver."
Now that the girl’s mouth wasn’t cocked wide and screaming, Tiller recognized her as the one they called Dicey, who answered the door when he came. Even then, she’d been hesitant to let him in the house. Poor thing must be the nervous sort.
Tiller glanced at Miss Vee, watching him with brooding eyes. "Ma’am, I’m no thief. Just impatient, I reckon. The house is full of the scent of good cooking, and my appetite got the best of me." He shuffled his feet. "It’s not the first time, I’ll say that much, but this lapse of good sense isn’t my fault. Judging by the smell, someone in this house has an inspiring talent for shaking a skillet." For emphasis, he shook the one in his hand.
Dicey ducked and clutched her bodice with both hands, pressing her back against the wall.
A smile edged the corners of Miss Vee’s mouth then melted into rowdy laughter. She patted Dicey’s shoulder. "Stop it, now. You’re wasting a good conniption. He’s not going to hurt you."
Dicey moaned. "How you know?"
Miss Bell glanced over her shoulder. "Good question, Dicey. I’m wondering the same."
Slipping one arm around Miss Bell’s dainty waist, Miss Vee hugged her close. "Honey, this boy’s harmless, as long as we keep him fed."
She jutted her chin at Tiller. "Go into the dining room and tuck in your napkin. We’ll be right in to serve you."
Tiller glanced toward the rolls.
Grinning, Miss Vee handed him the basket. "Take it along with you. Dicey will fetch the butter and jam."
He started for the hall with Miss Vee barking orders behind him.
"I’ve seen men like this before, Mariah. Pile a platter high with beef and ladle ample gravy in the bowl. If we don’t get his belly full, he’ll be back in the kitchen by nightfall."
Dicey followed Tiller into the dining room with mincing
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